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THE BELLE-ALLIANCE PLANTATION. 


The Ghost of the 
Belle -Alliance Plantation 


AND 

OTHER STORIES 


i 





LILIAN GIFFEN 


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COPY a 




Copyright, 1901, 

' BY 

Lilian Giffen^, 


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The Ghost of the Belle-Alliance 
Plantation. 


^HE Natchez swung her gang-plank 
over the levee to allow a passenger 
to land in the Parish of St. James, and 
the moment he stepped on the bank, 
with the ringing of her bells, and the 
rapid swishing of backing water under 
her wheel-house, the great steamer 
rapidly continued her trip up the 
Mississippi. 

A middle-aged colored man was 
waiting to meet the boat, and his round, 
shining, black face had looked troubled 
as he lounged up and down, while his 
little eyes wandered uneasily in the 


3 


The Ghost of the 


direction of a great square white house 
some half mile away, that loomed up 
shadow-like in the night ; but he bright- 
ened when the passenger landed, and 
baring his woolly head, took his valise, 
saying — “ Howdy, Boss.’' 

The newcomer nodded pleasantly — 
“ All well, Peter ? ” he asked. 

The man hesitated. “ Fse kinder 
wor’ied,” he answered at last. “ I don’t 
like de way tings seems a-goin’.” 

“ Any trouble at the Sugar House ? ” 
“ No, sah.” 

“ Trouble among the ‘ ha7ids'? ” 

“ No, Boss.” 

“ Then what is it ? ” 

Peter walked on sturdily as though 
he had not heard the question, but 


4 


Belle -Alliance Plantation. 


there was evidently a struggle going on 
within him, and his thick lips twitched a 
little. 

“ You'se not goin’ tuh de ‘Big House’ 
tuh night, is you ? ” he inquired, after a 
pause. 

“ Why not ? ” 

The servant’s black face became 
ashy. “ For de Lawd’s sake Missah 
Allise don’t sleep der! ” 

“ Is there going to be any rising over 
there, that you do not want me to go to 
the ‘ Big House ’ ? ” asked Mr. Allise in 
a low tone, glancing closely at his com- 
panion, and indicating the Quarters'' 
of the ''hands " with a slight gesture. 

“No! No! not dat! ” replied Peter, 
still more gloomily. Then edging 


5 


The Ghost of the 


nearer he whispered — “ Der’s Ghosses 
in de ‘Big House M ” 

His companion burst out laughing. 
“ Is that all ? he asked. 

Peter shuddered in dread of the 
punishment, by an offended spiritual 
world, of such untimely mirth. “You 
kin laugh,’' he objected stubbornly, 
“ but dey’s der! ” 

“ Since when, Peter, and what do 
they want?” 

The negro did not deign to answer, 
but from the furtive glances of his bead- 
like eyes, it was easy to see that he, 
at least, did not find this a jesting 
matter. 

The two men had by this time reached 
a branch in the path, and as they turned 


6 


Belle- Alliance Plantation. 


into the one leading to the house, Peter 
made another effort. 

“ Missah Allise,” he commenced, but 
seeing determination on the other’s 
face, his objections sank to mutterings, 
while his lagging steps seemed to invite 
his companion to gain some distance 
ahead of him in the path. 

Mr. Allise, however, apparently rec- 
ognizing that this maneuver meant 
desertion, wheeled briskly, and put his 
servant before him. 

Peter gave up opposition, but his 
teeth were commencing to chatter. 
“You won’t believe what I says,” he 
warned, “ but what you a-goin’ tuh say, 
ef de Ghoss comes tuh you dis even- 
in’?” 


7 


The Ghost of the 


With a shrug of his shoulders, Mr. 
Allise abandoned an effort to reason. 
“What will I say ? he answered, “Why, 
I will ask him to take a chair, and keep 
me company. It is rather lonely now 
over at the house, and I would like to 
have some one to talk to.” 

Peter literally gasped, and before he 
could collect his startled senses suffi- 
ciently to speak, his tormentor, who was 
beginning to enjoy the situation, contin- 
ued — “By the way, whose Ghost is it ? ” 

The negro’s horror was too great to 
permit him reflection on the tone in 
which the inquiry was made. All he 
heard was the interrogation, and in 
obedience to it, he ejaculated, “ It’s de 
ole Missis’ husban’ ! ” 


Belle- Alliance Plantation. 


“ Peter,” said his companion, sternly, 
“You never saw the old Missis’ hus- 
band ; he never lived in this house — it 
was built after his death, when the river 
ate in so far on this side of the bank 
that, in the survey, the line for the new 
levee passed through the spot where the 
old house stood, and so this one had to 
be built some distance back of it.” 

“ I don’t care ’bout dat,” Peter insisted 
stubbornly, “ He could come here ef he 
had a mind tuh. Lots of de new house 
was made from de ole. Dis is de home 
place anyway, an’ dis house would a bin 
his ef he had a lived, so he kin come 
home jes’ when he like.” 

“ Logically proved,” laughed the 
other, “ But why are you afraid of him ? 


9 


The Ghost of the 


If you were doing your work properly 
he would not trouble you/' 

Peter shook his head dubiously. 

Most ever sence you an' dat Chinee 
^hand' done bin up in de garret de 
Ghosses bin oneasy-like ; off and on a- 
howlin' an' a-howlin' till you' blood jes' 
run cold," he said fearfully. “ An' Han- 
nah was a-comin' down stairs yesterday 
evenin' wid a candle, and she say as 
how de ole Missis' husban' done meet 
her on de landin', and he was a- 
carryin' his head in his hands, and 
when he seed her a-comin', she 'low 
as how he jes' blow her candle right 
out." 

“ Peter, Peter," objected the other 
severely. “ If the Ghost was carrying 

lO 


Belle- Alliance Plantation. 


his own head in his hands, how could he 
blow Hannah’s candle out?” 

'‘Yes, sah, he done so,” affirmed 
Peter, emphatically. 

“ What else, Peter ? ” 

“You’se a-laughin’ now Missah 
Allise,” said his servant in a gloomily 
prophetic tone, “ But I tells you it’s 
mighty bad luck fur dem Ghosses tuh 
be a-walkin’ round like dat, an’ cryin’ an’ 
howlin’ — it’s mighty bad luck — you see 
ef somethin’ ain’t goin’ tuh happen.” 
He paused, and the two men walked on 
silently till they stood in front of the old 
house. All around it ran broad veran- 
dahs, supported by huge white columns, 
whose solid bases were but a few feet 
ofT the ground, while their capitals 


The Ghost of the 


reached to the second story ; the tall 
pillars making monster shadows in the 
moonlight. 

Nothing but habitual obedience to his 
master’s commands, aided by the pres- 
sure of the latter’s hand on his shoulder 
induced Peter to move forward, and 
ascend the huge white steps leading to 
the front door. 

Mr. Allise put his latch-key in the 
lock, pushed the door open, and they 
entered a tremendous hall, whose inky 
blackness the faint light of the lantern 
made, if possible, deeper, as it glanced 
on the polished floor and furniture. 

Over the echoing boards the two men 
went past the closed doors of apart- 
ments on either side of the hall, direct- 


Belle- Alliance Plantation, 


ing their steps towards the stairway 
more through familiarity than sight. 

The heavy atmosphere of an empty 
house, and the intense stillness, now 
that even the faint noises of the crickets 
and the night were shut out by the 
great doors, fell oppressively over all, 
making the steps of the two men 
ascending the broad, square staircase 
sound followed by other footfalls, while 
reverberation seemed to echo the 
negro’s hurried breathing mockingly. 

Silently they gained the upper hall, 
and entered one of the large front 
rooms. In a few moments the broad 
flame of a lamp illuminated the lofty 
ceiling and gigantic four-post bed, bare 
now of curtains and draperies, whose 
13 


The Ghost of the 


great, gaunt shadow thrown against the 
wall, looked like the skeleton of some 
prehistoric monster. 

Peter moved about arranging things 
in the room for a while, then he turned 
to his companion, “ Kin I go over tuh 
de ‘ Quarters ’ tuh night ? he asked. 

Mr. Allise nodded, and the negro 
moved towards the door. Suddenly, he 
almost dropped his lantern, and his 
trembling limbs refusing to uphold him, 
he grasped at the wall for support, par- 
alyzed with fear ; while even his com- 
panion started and looked around 
strangely. 

A long, low cry like a wail of agony, 
echoed through the empty house. 
Following it came a succession of sob- 


14 


Belle- Alliance Plantation. 


bing moans, weird and far reaching, 
now in fading tones as though the faint- 
ness of exhaustion was overtaking their 
author, now* rising as with a last 
despairing agony. 

Through and through the empty 
house the unearthly noise sounded, 
echoing back after each prolonged cry, 
until the whole air seemed filled with 
voices. 

Shaking himself free from the impres- 
sion that had held him spell-bound, Mr. 
Allise sprang for the stairs leading to 
the upper stories, whence the strange 
plaints seemed to come, dragging after 
him his half unconscious servant, whom, 
for the moment, fear had deprived of 
the power of resistance. 


15 


The Ghost of the 


As they rushed up, the unearthly cries 
ceased, and the men paused, appalled by 
the succeeding silence. Suddenly, again 
the hideous sobs rang out still above 
and above the listeners, only to cease 
as they stumbled up the dark stairway 
into the garret, and stood, breathless, 
gazing on the streak of pale light the 
lantern threw on two dormer windows 
that looked out to the river and the 
night. With a quick movement Mr. 
Allise lifted the lantern he had taken 
from his companion’s shaking fingers, 
and advanced. Beside him was a door 
leading into what he knew was used as 
a sort of lumber room. But as his 
steps sounded on the floor, apparently 
through the very panels burst a series 


i6 


Belle- Alliance Plantation. 


of the unearthly howls and cries, whilst 
the barrier itself seemed to tremble 
with a frenzied effort for freedom. 

His hand was on the knob, when 
extremity of fear roused the negro 
from his passive obedience. Mad with 
terror, he stayed the other’s move- 
ments, pleading hoarsely — “Fur Gawd’s 
sake don’t let de Ghoss loose on us — 
he’ll kill us ! Oh ! my Gawd, Missah 
Allise, don’t, don’t do dat ! ” 

With an exclamation Mr. Allise threw 
off the detaining hand, and flung open 
the door. 

A shrill, piercing yell rang out, as 
something rushed through the opening. 
Instantly there was a noise of falling as 
Peter, beside himself, half raced, half 


17 


The Ghost of the 


rolled down the steps to escape. Two 
glistening, green, glass-like eyes danced 
around Mr. Allise, a small body struck 
against him, and the deep moans 
changed to half snarling yelps. A 
small, miserable, half starved, white dog, 
frightened almost into convulsions was 
running about wildly, sniffing the floor 
curiously, as though every now and then 
detecting a well-known trace. 

It was the little dog of the Chinese 
^^hand"' who had gone up into the garret 
with him two days before, Mr. Allise 
afterwards told Peter ; and neither man 
noticing that the dog had followed 
them, it had inadvertently been closed 
up in the lumber room. But though 
this explanation was carefully pointed 

i8 


B elk’ Alliance Plantation. 


out to him as an illustration of the non- 
existence of Ghosts, Peter continued to 
shake his head solemnly, and his own 
interpretation of the affair was that the 
Ghost, disturbed in his nocturnal pere- 
grinations, and for reasons of his own 
not wishing to expose these to his 
descendant, though compelled by the 
laws of the spiritual world to appear in 
visible form on earth at that hour, had 
purposely assumed the shape of the 
Chinaman’s little dog, in order to mis- 
lead those who were blind enough 
to occult forces to hold explained, 
things for which material reasons were 
evident. 

“ But,” Peter wound up impressively 
in telling the story in the 'Quarters' 

19 


The Ghost of the Belle- Alliance Plantation. 


“ Dat Ghoss can’t fool me ! ” And from 
that time forward, from the moment the 
sun went down, not a negro would stay 
alone in the ‘ Big House,’ and after 
nightfall no power on earth would have 
made one approach the haunted portals, 
and risk meeting The Ghost of the 
Belle 'Alliance Plantation. 


20 


The Fortunes of War. 


^ ^ J F you really wish your daughter to 
study French while you are here, 
I know the very teacher for you ; one 
highly recommended to me, and whom 
I have found excellent.” 

“ You are very kind. If you will give 
me the address I will try and make 
arrangements.” 

The speakers were Mrs. Cushington 
Remsen, formerly of Boston, but whose 
husband’s business interests turning 
southwards, had recently made their 
home in New Orleans, and Mr. Arthur 
Revelstone, of New York, just arrived 
in the city escaping the northern mid- 
winter. 


The Fortunes of War. 


“ Mademoiselle de la Vire, — Dau- 
phine St./’ Mrs. Remsen answered. 

De la Vire, de la Vire,” Mr. Revel- 
stone repeated musingly, “that name 
used to be very familiar to me ! It 
was a very prominent one here years 
ago. I was in New Orleans once before, 
you know, just before the war. I am 
much obliged for this name,” he added, 
reverting to the former subject of con- 
versation, “ it will save me from a very 
puzzling choice of teachers.” 

Shortly after this Mr. Revelstone 
crossed Canal Street, that broad thor- 
oughfare which divides the upper or 
new part of New Orleans, from the 
“down-town,” or old French portion of 
the city, and entered Dauphine Street. 
The brown stucco was scaling in patches 


The Fortunes of War. 


off the fronts of the brick houses lining 
it. They had originally been the bril- 
liant homes of a refined and cultured 
society, and now their shabby fronts and 
closed windows — closed not from lack 
of habitation, but to shut out the noises 
of business so near — stamped them with 
a sort of conscious gloom of adversity, 
that mute record of the history of dwel- 
lings, sheltering inmates of steadily 
descending scales of rank and fortunes. 
Many of the somber and erstwhile so 
proudly exclusive buildings were board- 
ing houses, others bore the emblazoned 
plates of dentists or dressmakers, and 
the line of two or three-storied dwellings 
was every now and then sharply broken 
by lower and brightly painted shop- 
buildings. 


23 


The Fortunes of War, 


Down the once aristocratic quarter 
of the old city Mr. Revelstone walked 
musingly, bewildered by the contrast 
between recollections of former gran- 
deur and the harsh changes of thirty 
years. Suddenly he paused irresolutely. 
His eyes had been mechanically follow- 
ing the numbers on the houses, and the 
small black figures of the one he was 
seeking arrested his steps in front of a 
tiny little house, the dinginess of whose 
paint could not overcome that certain 
claim to distinction coming from the 
exquisite cleanliness of the small 
entrance. The old bell at the gate 
jangled discordantly at his touch, and it 
was some moments before the door was 
opened softly, and a low voice requested 
the visitor to enter. 


24 


The Fortunes of War. 


Coming from the sunlight, the tiny 
hall was so dark, the owner of the voice 
seemed to Mr. Revelstone only a vague 
shadow, but he followed it into a small 
parlor, to which the closely barred shut- 
ters, bare floor, and cold grey linen 
slips covering the furniture, gave a 
chilly air of disuse. The shadow lifted 
one of the shades, and a streak of 
searching daylight fell across the little 
room, bringing out clearly its smallness 
and sparse furniture. Only a few 
chairs and a sofa covered with irre- 
proachable linen slips, an old etagere of 
dark wood in one corner, with well- 
rubbed shelves, bare of ornaments, 
except for a plain glass vase filled with 
simple, but fresh and tastefully arranged 
flowers ; walls whose dark papering 


25 


The Fortunes of War, 


was unbroken by pictures ; an old 
heavy French bronze clock standing on 
the mantel, whose ugly wooden shelf was 
covered by a piece of inexpensive stuff 
of dainty coloring, draped and embel- 
lished with a little of that delicate needle 
work — the pastime of better days, the 
drudgery of poor ones — by which 
women so often bravely try to brighten 
the appearances of their poor surround- 
ings. A like covering, eloquent in its 
freshness of an unconquerable love of 
refinement, lay upon a small table near 
the window, on which was a worn leath- 
er-bound photograph album. 

Mr. Revelstone’s eyes took in these 
details at a glance and rested upon his 
companion. She was a little below the 
medium height ; slight, very thin even. 


26 


The Fortunes of War. 


dressed in the plainest of black gowns, 
upon which the cruel sunlight showed 
the unfailing signs of long wear. Yet, 
faded though the material, what neat- 
ness there was in its soft folds, what 
exquisite daintiness in the tiny muslin 
collar, so simply caught at the throat by 
a diminutive gold pin encircling a bit 
of faded hair. Above this rose a deli- 
cate, pinched face, from whose olive tint 
all tinge of rosier color had long since 
vanished, and a sprinkling of white was 
creeping through the black hair pushed 
simply off the low forehead, and folded 
in heavy coils at the back of the head. 
Want, privation and sorrow had shrunk 
the slight form, made haggard the pale 
face, and deepened the dark circles 
under the large eyes ; but time itself 


27 


The Fortunes of War. 


could not entirely rob these of their 
beauty. It had quenched their fire, and 
made the tired lids droop heavily, but it 
had paused before the proud, reserved 
dignity that rested so quietly in their 
depths. 

Involuntarily, Mr. Revelstone bowed 
low as he introduced himself and 
explained his mission. This low-voiced, 
soft-mannered woman, whose very un- 
obtrusiveness spoke not the ostenta- 
tious retiring of poverty, but the deli- 
cate reserve of breeding, impressed 
him, puzzled him. He caught himself 
noting the weariness in her voice, 
despite its courtesy, as she entered into 
his arrangements, and when she excused 
herself and left the room to write the 
names of some needed books, he was 


28 


The Fortunes of War. 


surprised at the interest he felt in this 
stranger. Who was she ? he wondered. 
Such a woman must have a story, and 
absently he picked up the old album, and 
turned over its yellowed pages. 

Faded faces, some young, some old — 
girlish or maturer beauties, and aristo- 
cratic men — looked up at him from their 
gilt-edged framings. 

Fashions and souvenirs of days 
passed away like those who had graced 
them, were before him, and woke a host 
of vague associations in his mind. 
These people, such as he had not 
thought of for years, who were they? 
What connection had they with his mem- 
ories ? Was it merely an unconscious 
mental state that made there seem 
something familiar between himself and 


29 


The Fortunes of War. 


them ? He turned another page. Four 
of the little cartes-de-visite photographs 
were there as on the others. On the 
top row were those of a man near 
middle age, whose proud face bespoke 
French origin, and a woman past the 
bloom of youth, but of exceeding love- 
liness still. Below these, one likeness 
was that of a young Confederate offi- 
cer, with the light of daring and love in 
his handsome face ; the other of a girl, 
whose delicate brunette beauty stood 
out even upon the faded pasteboard ; 
an exquisite, youthful face, dimpled 
shoulders rising above the low dress, a 
mass of dark hair, and eyes radiant with 
life and feeling and gladness, full of that 
impulsive spirit of eager courage that 
has never yet been touched by sorrow. 


30 


The Fortunes of War. 


A faint rustle of skirts sounded in 
the doorway. His late companion was 
returning, and Mr. Revelstone, with a 
long, searching look from the woman to 
the book, and from the book back to 
the woman, laid the former open upon 
the table, and taking both the latter’s 
hands in his, bent over them with a 
sudden emotion, exclaiming “ Agalice, 
yes, Agalice — Agalice de la Vire! ” 
Thirty years before, the then young 
New Yorker had entered New Orleans 
bearing cordial letters of introduction 
from an old friend to Monsieur Antoine 
Louis de la Vire, and his reception by 
the brilliant Louisianian had made an 
epoch in his life. M. de la Vire had 
taken him to his splendid sugar planta- 
tion, a little court in itself, and then had 

31 


The Fortunes of War. 


entertained him in his beautiful old 
house on Royal Street, where one 
passed through the great doors to enter 
an open court, with palms and fountain 
in the centre, and mounted broad steps 
to the rooms above. In these spacious 
apartments, furnished after the fashions 
of France, rich with priceless elegancies 
of taste and refinement, had passed 
before him the tide of the youth and 
beauty of the French City on the banks 
of the Mississippi. Exquisite women, 
gallant men — a courtly throng had flit- 
ted through those rooms that echoed to 
the mingling of mirth and music, while 
the great mirrors reflected a thousand 
times the brilliant presences, more 
dazzling, and alas, as passing, as the 
gleaming waxen lights, and perfumed 


32 


The Fortunes of War. 


flowers about them. There, idol of 
the fetes, fascinating in her rich, 
young beauty, sparkled the lovely 
daughter of his host. Wherever the 
gleam of her dark eyes, there crowded 
a host of worshipers, and none more 
ardent than he. From a dream of 
pleasure, the visit became a fever of 
passion. But her heart and hand were 
pledged to a distant cousin, as charming 
a gentleman as woman’s heart could 
desire, and the young New Yorker 
went back to his home — to forget. 

Then the storm of the Civil War 
burst over the South. Mourning was 
in the hearts and homes of the people 
of New Orleans. At the first call 
Agalice de la Vire saw her fiance go, 
and for a time news of his courage 


33 


The Fortunes of War, 


and daring reached home ; and then — 
one day he did not come back with 
the troops from the field. Though 
past the age for active service Louis 
de la Vire could not see his country’s 
need without responding. The courtly 
gentleman was a gallant soldier, but 
the close of the war saw two more 
delicately nurtured women struggling 
for the barest bit of bread — they who 
had known such plenty. 

Plantations swept of everything by 
Federal soldiery, forced for safety to 
leave the country and take refuge in 
the city, there their house and its 
contents taken possession of by Fed- 
eral officers, jewels, furniture, property 
gone ; unprotected and unsupported ; 
the bones of father and husband and 


34 


The Fortunes of War. 


lover, lying in some unknown trench 
on a battle field, along with the bones 
of so many fathers, husbands, brothers, 
lovers ; face to face with poverty and 
lack of influence, the two lonely women 
could not push their claims, but saw 
them unrecognized, unconsidered, push- 
ed aside, and their property remain 
in the hands that had seized it. 

Teaching and sewing, mother and 
daughter eked out a scanty livelihood ; 
and then, as if Fate, relentless, pursues 
to the end those she crushes, the 
mother’s health gave way. During 
the long years of her invalidism, the 
girl stood alone to tend her suffering 
and to cope with adverse fortune. 
Their best friends in little better 
position than themselves, struggling 


35 


The Fortunes of War, 


now for the preservation of the one 
life dear to her, sinking always deeper 
into the world’s oblivion, uncomplain- 
ing, asking nothing, hoping nothing, 
the solitary bread-winner toiled on, 
and when at last Madame de la Vire 
lay at rest in the old St. Louis Cem- 
etery, dumbly keeping on existing, 
the ghosts of the past now the sole 
companions of this wrecked life — this 
one of many. The once petted, 
courted, brilliant beauty, with her hosts 
of friends, proud family and devoted 
lover, now the thin, poorly clad, soli- 
tary woman, whom the man her father 
had introduced to New Orleans society 
and who had sued her to be his wife, 
had, not recognizing, engaged as the 
French teacher of his child. 


36 


A Meeting of Nations. 


“DER’ S gwine tuh be trouble — 
trouble,” wailed Peter dismally. 
“ Missah Allise, fur what is yuh always 
a-temptin’ Providence?” 

Mr. Allise was sitting in an arm- 
chair in the dining-room before a great 
fire of logs, that crackled in the huge 
chimney-place, sending long rays of 
sparkling light over the polished brass 
andirons and fender. 

The overseer sat on the edge of a 
chair a little distant, his hat in his 
hand, and worry and uneasiness written 
large over his whole face. 


37 


A Meeting of Nations. 


Peter had been sent from the room 
on his arrival some time before, so the 
two men faced towards the sound of 
the unexpected voice, to discover the 
darkey half in and half out of the room 
— his head in the dining-room, while 
his body remained in the adjoining 
pantry — in a sort of snake-like arrange- 
ment of his person around the door he 
had slightly opened. 

“ Come in and close the door, Peter,” 
Mr. Allise ordered severely. 

Peter obeyed with a reluctant sense 
that his outspoken interest in his em- 
ployer s conversation had exposed him, 
not to discovery of listening to affairs 
not meant for him (he did that as a 
right), but to be cross-questioned. 


38 


A Meeting of Nations. 


“You were saying, Mr. Howard?” 
Mr. Allise pursued, addressing . the 
overseer and ignoring his servant. 

“ I was saying, sir, that the gang of 
Chinese, under a ‘ Boss ’ Chinaman, 
you sent for from one of the companies 
in San Francisco, are in their quarters, 
but the gang of colored ‘ hands ’ say they 
shall not work with them on the Planta- 
tion.” 

Mr. Allise smiled meditatively. 
“ Has this been sent as a message 
to me ? ” he inquired. “And do the 
colored ^hands' refuse to work?” 

“No, no, sir, they expect to go to 
work to-morrow as usual, and they 
don’t say anything about you — it’s only 
the Chinese they don’t like. They say 


39 


A Meeting of Nations. 


there have never been such f lands ’ on 
any plantation in Louisiana, and they 
won’t let what they call, ‘ dem canni- 
bals and savages’ work with them. 
You know, sir, you are the first to em- 
ploy a Chinese gang on any plantation 
in the State.” 

“Yes,” assented Mr. Allise, “but I 
cannot get an extra gang of negroes 
this season, and I must have 'hands ’ to 
cultivate the cane.” 

“ But what am I to do, sir ?” asked 
the overseer, dubiously. 

“ Order out both gangs at six o’clock 
to-morrow morning. With the China- 
men you will only have to give the 
order to the ‘ Boss,’ and he will com- 
municate with his gang.” 


40 


A Meeting of Nations. 


“ Peter,” said Mr. Allise, after the 
overseer, plainly doubtful of the mor- 
row’s prospect, had left the room, “Are 
you going to the cane-field tomorrow ? ” 
Peter was well known as one of the 
greatest cowards on the plantation, 
though his reputation as “ cunjerer” or 
“ vou-dou ” man saved him the taunts 
of his burlier compatriots. He swelled 
and stuttered now offendedly as he 
replied, “ Fse one ob de house servants 
— I ain’t no hoe-hand.” 

“ Order Gipsy at six o’clock, pre- 
cisely, Peter,” was his answer. 

The next morning, as the plantation 
bell rang out, a swarm of dark figures 
poured from the '‘quarters' of the col- 
ored ‘ hands ’ with an alacrity that 


41 


A Meeting of Nations. 


spoke more of enthusiasm than mere 
discipline. Men and women, a gang of 
some fifty strong, with their hoes on their 
shoulders (for the Belle- Alliance Planta- 
tion sent four thousand barrels of sugar 
to market each season), trooped out 
jubilantly. From the opposite corner 
of the ^quarters' a silent file of twenty- 
five tall, slim, loose blue-bloused, yellow- 
skinned, high cheek-boned, impassive- 
faced Chinamen marched along, headed 
by their “ boss,” their queues tucked up 
under their broad straw hats. The over- 
seer was already on horseback, and, 
with the negroes and celestials, moved 
off at a brisk pace to the cane fields. 

Up at the Big House, through inad- 
vertence or design, Peter had neglected 


42 


A Meeting of Nations. 


the orders of his master, and was blink- 
ing his eyes with a face of hopeless 
stupidity as the latter paced up and 
down waiting for Gipsy. 

The two lines of f lands ’ were already 
in the distance ere the beautiful 
thoroughbred mare was brought up for 
her master. Peter watched Mr. Allise 
throw himself into the saddle and dash 
away ; then shaking his head steadily, 
with a little chuckle, went indoors, care- 
fully closing the doors behind him. 

In the brisk morning air the nervous 
animal stretched herself under her 
rider, but as they swung round a clump 
of splendid old live oaks and gained a 
full view of the cane field, in which the 
gangs were to begin that morning, Mr. 


43 


A Meeting of Nations. 


Allise actually put spurs to the quiver- 
ing thoroughbred, only to pull up his 
offended and excited steed a few min- 
utes later and sit rocking in his saddle 
with laughter, while Gipsy tossed her 
head in equine wonder and impatience 
over the — to her — inexplicable mood of 
her beloved rider. 

What Gipsy did not appreciate and 
her master had witnessed was the over- 
seer’s order to the gangs of hoe-hands 
to file into ranks in the cane rows. 
With one accord the negroes dropped 
their hoes, and the women inciting, the 
burly men advanced threateningly, with 
powerful clenched fists, on the group of 
celestials. Outnumbered as they were, 
there seemed no doubt, a Chinaman 


44 


A Meeting of Nations. 


should not work on the Belle-Alliance 
Plantation. The small band, too, threw 
their hoes from them, and huddled 
together. Was it flight or mercy they 
meditated ? Or did they understand — 
they seemed so quiet ? 

The negroes were almost upon them, 
when, with the dazzling flame of a 
meteor, twenty-five long, gleaming, 
murderous-looking knives flashed from 
the loose blue blouses, and, like yellow 
devils, the celestials charged upon their 
advancing enemies. Like the leaves 
scattered by an autumn storm, the 
negroes turned and fell over each other 
to escape. At every step the gleam of 
the blades growing brighter and the 
length longer to their terrified imagina- 


45 


A Meeting of Nations. 


tions, urging them to fly, till not one 
black face was left on the landscape, 
and long after the assailed gang had 
restored their knives to their blouses 
and were methodically hoeing in the 
cane rows. 

Bayonet charges are the most effect- 
ive in the history of warfare, and from 
then till the Chinese gang ended its 
contract and returned with filled purses 
to the Flowery Kingdom, Asia and 
Africa, with the geographical distance 
of a cane row between them, hoed 
along peaceably on the banks of the 
Mississippi. 


46 


Her People. 


‘ ‘ \YELL, Mammy, where are your 
Pralines this morning ? ” 
“Ain’t got no Pralines just now, but 
I’ll be back wid some mighty soon. 
I’se just gwine tuh de cemetery wid 
dese flowers, and den I’ll be right 
back.” The old colored woman dressed 
in purple calico, and with a black and 
white handkerchief, a — “ tion” — marvel- 
ously twisted around her grizzled head, 
held out a big hard bunch of white chrys- 
anthemums as she spoke, and stood 
looking irresolutely at her interlocutor. 

This one, however, was in no hurry 
to release her attention. He was a 


47 


Her People. 


frequent, almost a daily customer of 
“ Mammy,” as he, like other habitual 
patrons of her wares — those delicious 
cakes of sugar and nuts — Pralines — 
had learned to call the old negress. 

Something of the nurse about her, 
that strange mingling of deference 
with motherliness, it was perhaps that 
appealing to long stilled memories of 
his childhood, drew the lonely, delicate- 
looking man day after day to the corner 
of Canal and Bourbon Streets, for the 
sole purpose and expectation of finding 
one figure sitting there in its accus- 
tomed place before its great basket. 

Mammy too felt the bond of sym- 
pathy between them. The old nurse’s 
soul was strong within her, and her 
48 


Her People. 


ancient spirit of serving and devotion 
twined around this stranger who was 
so kind. He was worthy, she thought, 
to have belonged to other times, and 
to have been cared for by her. Indeed 
she had almost come to consider him 
“ one uv my chilluns,” as she called 
the different babies whose nurse she 
had been. She had often talked to 
him of past glories, and the grandeurs 
of “ my people,” as she termed her 
owners with pride. But brought up 
as she had been by gentlefolks, some 
of their reticence had faded ofT on 
her. Mammy had never spoken of 
all she remembered. There were 
depths of feeling far down in the old 
woman’s heart that she exposed to 


49 


Her People, 


few. Mammy’s manner now was 
graver than her wont, and the genial 
smile she usually greeted him with 
showed a certain excitement. “ It’s de 
fu’st uv November, All Saints Day,” 
she explained. “ Tuh day, we always 
dresses de graves uv our dead.” Her 
companion stirred and a shade came 
over his face. “ Our dead.” Where 
were his dead ? “ Let me go with 

you. Mammy,” was all he said, but 
impressed by something in his manner, 
the old woman nodded. 

A strange pair they made, this tall, 
exquisitely dressed man, with the 
melancholy in the pallor of his face, 
and the stout, good-natured, defer- 
ential old woman, waddling along 
50 


Her People. 


near him, as they threaded their way 
out the crowded streets to the old St. 
Louis Cemetery. From all parts of 
the city, people were hurrying along 
with great bunches or baskets of 
white flowers. As though one of those 
movements which unite humanity, this 
day of All Saints seemed not confined 
as the fete of any one sect, but rather 
the universal fete day of loved and 
lost ones gone before, a tribute from 
those on earth to those they hope to 
meet in another world of All Saints. 

The white-washed gates of the old 
cemetery were wide, and the crowd 
about them constantly increasing. A 
group of orphans and Sisters of Charity 
sat on either side of the entrance, 

51 


Her People. 


keeping up an unceasing jingle by strik- 
ing tin cups with a bit of metal to solicit 
alms. Street cars and vehicles of all 
kinds rattled past and the hum of voices 
rose shrilly. Mammy pushed through 
this, too accustomed to it to feel the 
strangeness of the scene, and led her 
companion through a maze of tomb-lined 
streets and alleys — a veritable city of 
the dead. What strange pages of his- 
tory this old place unfolded! In days 
gone by it had been the most aristo- 
cratic cemetery in New Orleans, but, 
with the pushing out of burying grounds 
beyond the city limits, this one, in the 
heart of a closely built quarter, had 
long been deserted by the enlightened 
generation of society, and gradually 


52 


Her People, 


the poorest classes had taken up the 
ground, now become so cheap, for 
the resting places of their dead. In 
the midst of the new and humble 
white-washed cells, every now and then 
would loom up some time-blackened 
marble structure, broken and grass- 
grown, monuments to neglect and 
decay, yet upon whose weather-beaten 
surfaces could be deciphered names 
that had once figured in the glitter 
and pomp of European courts ; names 
that had swayed the destinies of the 
Spanish and French governments of 
the Province in its early days ; names 
that had been foremost in the old 
South ; names that no longer belonged 
to the living in the present city. 


53 


Her People. 


Rapidly the old woman threaded 
her way through the intricate alleys, 
and finally paused before an enclosure 
a little apart from other tombs in the 
neighborhood. Beside the crumbling 
mausoleum it contained, a younger 
grave stood close, forlorn in its isola- 
tion under the shadow of the older 
and decaying monument. Mammy 
stopped here, and bent to put her 
flowers on this tomb, and her com- 
panion looking over her, read the in- 
scription 

Celine de Ligne 

Wife of Paul Franfois de Moret 
Born April 15th, 1828 
Died April 15th, 1870 


54 


Her People. 


That was all. Yet the simplicity of 
it had the greater solemnity. Here 
rested no kindred of Mammy’s, but 
one of those she had belonged to, 
and whom she called “ her people. ” 
Ties of blood could bring no living hand 
to lay a remembrance on this grave ; ties 
of faithful devotion could find but one 
hand still on earth to pay it reverence. 

The tombs nearby had been decor- 
ated earlier in the morning, and the 
crowds no longer passed through this 
corner of the old cemetery. The 
noises of the entrance were such a 
vague murmur here that the rustle of 
the long grass and rank weeds grow- 
ing about the crumbling bricks of the 
ancient tomb sounded sighingly in the 

Lor 0. 


55 


Her People. 


faint breeze. The desolation of it 
chilled the heart of the man standing 
here. Were other forgotten graves 
like this ? A strange gleam of sad- 
ness and excitement shone in the old 
woman’s eyes. “ De ole Missis happy 
now,’^ she said in a soft, crooning 
voice, spite uv her lying here way 
away from all her folks. She ain’t 
never said one word, but when she 
die, she hold dat lill’ pictur uv Mawse 
Emile in her hand, and she say some- 
thin’ low an sof’, what I never hear, 
but I guess she ain’t lonesome no 
more. I was a young gal when she 
marry Mawse Paul de Moret, so fine 
a gen’lman an’ so proud, an’ his plant- 
ation, where he tek her up tuh live, 
56 


Her People. 


was de fines’ in the whole Parish. De 
house was always full uv cump’ny, an’ 
der was big balls, an’ in de grindin’ 
season dancin’ in de Sugar House, an’ 
dey never fergit tuh fix fer somethin’ 
fer de colored folks in de Quarters. 
Ole Mawse he so proud uv Missis he 
jes’ couldn’t do ’nuff fer her. She 
have everythin’ she kin think uv, and 
he jes’ heap jewels an’ all kinds uv 
presents on her, and when Mawse 
Emile born you never seed sich joy. 
Ole Mawse only live five, six years, 
an’ den Missis close de house tuh 
s’ciety, an’ live der by herself, an’ 
manage de plantation. She grieve 
powerful, but she was mighty proud, 
an’ hole herself so quiet she done 


57 


Her People, 


have her way more’n ever. She try 
tuh make Mawse Emile learn every- 
thin’ soon as he could. Seem as ef 
she want him tuh grow up fas’ tuh be 
a man. He de only de Moret you 
know. When de war broke out, we 
was all up at de Plantation. Ole 
Missis didn’t say much, but she was 
a-frettin’ mighty hard, an’ me who 
was wid her, knowed how much she 
help de Confederates. One time while 
de Union troops was a congr’gatin’ 
all over de State, Mawse Charles, 
ole Missis brother, who had been a- 
fightin’, all ’long, an’ had corned t’rough 
de lines wid some ’spatches, pass by 
de Plantation, an’ stop see his sister. 
Ole Missis had been a-holdin’ her 

58 


Her People. 


head mighty high, an’ I had a-wor’id 
’cause I didn’t know de reason. But 
I knowed soon. When Mawse Charles 
done greet her, an’ tell her de news, 
she say quiet like — ‘ Brother, Emile ’1 go 
back wid you.’ I was standin’ near ole 
Missis, fer I’d bin Mawse Emile’s nuss, 
an’ me an’ my ole man Louis was de only 
ones dey could trus’ tuh know ’bout 
Mawse Charles visit, an’ I mos’ fall down. 
Mawse Emile wasn’t more dan sixteen 
years ole. Mawse Charles hisself start.” 

Celine you’ dreamin’,’ he say quick.” 

“ ‘ No, I am in earnes’. In sich a cause, 
would you have a de Moret absen’ ? 
You is not standin’ back. Paul is not 
here tuh go ; Emile mus’ tek his place.’ ” 

“Den Mawse Charles talk tuh her 


59 


Her People. 


real sor’erful. He tell her tuh recollec’ 
Mawse Emile too young. He speak 
uv de ha’dship an’ dangers, an’ he say 
as how her only son should be wid 
her till he get ol’er. He ’peal tuh her 
love fer de boy, an’ his dead father, 
so she’d not let him go. Ole Missis 
smile sometimes and den agin she 
break out haughty-like, an’ ’sist he 
goin’ anyway. So it was when time 
come fer Mawse Charles tuh leave, 
Mawse Emile, what we all love so 
well, an’ Louis, was a-goin’ wid him. 
De tears was in my eyes so I couldn’t 
see when I look at de chile I had 
nussed a-goin’ out tuh de war. An’ 
Louis an’ me look at each other, as 
we seed him, an’ somehow we couldn’t 


6o 


Her People. 


say nuthin'. When Mawse Charles 
kiss his sister, he say once more — 
‘ Fer Gawd’s sake, Celine, recunsidder. 
I implo’ you not tuh sen’ de boy yit.’ ” 
“ Ole Missis draw herself up and say 
firm — ‘I would put my cuss on my 
son ef he did not go. I would rather 
he was brought back tuh me dead, 
dan dat he should not do his duty.’ 
An’ den dey rode off in de darkness, 
an’ de days went on an’ on, an’ tings 
got worser an’ worser. By’m-by de 
Quarters was half empty, some uv de 
niggers had runned off, an’ ole Missis 
an’ me stay ’long best we could up at 
de House. She always talk hopeful, 
but my heart sink and sink. De 
Federals had a-bin on de place, an’ a- 

6i 


Her People. 


tuk everythin’ dey could, leff us mos’ tuh 
nuthin’, an’ dey had gone off on ’nuther 
raid. I knowed dey was gone some 
time, but my heart done jump in my 
mouf one night when I go out de 
house, tuh see somethin’ behin’ one 
uv de columns. I start tuh run back, 
but somethin’ catch me, and cover my 
mouf up quick, an’ den it seem as ef 
it was Mawse Charles an’ Louis what 
speak tuh me, an’ tole me it was dem, 
an’ dey mus’ see ole Missis, an’ fer me 
not tuh let no one else know, as I 
value der lives. I was so scared I 
couldn’t move, but by’m-by ole Missis 
call, an’ dey push me on, an’ I try tuh 
go in. Ole Missis mus’ ’a bin onquiet 
an’ come tuh fin’ me, fer when I look 


62 


Her People. 


up, der she was in de doorway. I 
dunno how it was, but when I see her 
my tongue jes’ stuck in my mouf, an’ 
I couldn’t do nuthin’ but whisper — 
‘ Mawse Charles! Louis! ’ Ole Missis 
step forward an’ grasp my arm kin’er 
quick. Den it seem as ef Mawse 
Charles hang back. Dey was right 
near befo’ he tuk her hands, an’ seem 
like his face was paler’n hers. Dey look 
at each other steady fer a minute, an’ 
den Mawse Charles speak — ‘ Cdine,’ 
he says, ‘Emile has come back home wid 
me. Yo’ son has done his duty gallant, 
an’ he is come home — tuh stay.’” 

“We ain’t never seed Mawse Charles 
agin sence dat night when he bring 
home Mawse Emile’s body tuh. his 


63 


Her People. 


mother. Louis an’ ole Missis, an’ me, 
an’ de Pries’ bury Mawse Emile in de 
family buryin’ ground on de Plantation, 
an’ after a lill’ ole Missis had tuh give up 
de place an’ come tuh town. She tuk 
me wid her an’ was lovely same as she 
always was, but she fade an’ fade ’way. 
We’se put her here in de ole Sancey 
lot. Dey’s all dead long ago, but dey 
was friends in de ole days. She’d a 
want to be tuk up tuh de ole Plantation, 
an’ laid ’side Mawse Paul an’ Mawse 
Emile, but de place wasn’t ours no more,, 
an’ we couldn’t go up der. Seems hard 
ole Missis got tuh lay here all by herself 
’way from all her folks, but I know she’s 
mighty glad uv one ting — dat de last 
uv his name rest by his father.” 


64 


KOV 80 1901 


NOV 29 1901 


J COPY DEL. TO CAT. OlV. 
NOV. 30 1901 


OEC, 6 1901 




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